The case of the mortal fairy queen
by mrs.forsyte
Summary: A murder at the Theatre Royal has our friends Holmes and Watson on the alert...
1. Chapter 1

The case of the mortal fairy queen

**I own neither "Sherlock Holmes" nor "A midsummer night's dream", dear me. Quotes from the latter are typed in italics.**

Wha-hey, back again! Didn't I make half a promise? *grin* This new case from the annals of Dr. Watson takes place in the year 1888, shortly after the doctor's marriage as well as the cases "The sign of four" and "A scandal in Bohemia". Erroneously, I set "The case of the vanished landlady" in the year 1891, way too late, since it is supposed to be _before_ the marriage. Sorry, my timeline is a mess, but I was never good at figures. Gaaah, Wayne cares! On with the first act!

Chapter one: Dramatis Personae

"On most occasions", my friend Sherlock Holmes remarked one day as we lounged in our club seats after breakfast, "your recent marriage would be apt to inspire annoyance in a man of my disposition, whom I depend on your company as the only acceptable and within my reach. Yet, I feel that today your proclivity towards togetherness takes quite a burden from my conscience."

"How so?" I enquired smilingly, at one time pleased and uneasy about his confession that he regretted my now frequent absence from Baker Street.

"It is wrong, perhaps", he mused, "to throw away the prizes fate drops into one's lap, even if one has absolutely no use for them. You remember, of course, the affair concerning the American ambassador's son?"

"Certainly. Only yesterday I finished my report of the case. My wife was thrilled to read it."

"Quite so. In his gratitude, his Excellency made to me the gift of two tickets for a gala representation. How it came to his mind to do so I cannot fathom." The corners of his mouth tugged upwards. "I take it he considers me a married man."

"Indeed!" My interest was piqued. "Which representation?"

"A premier at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane. It is some Shakespeare, I believe, that piece featuring goblins and fairies and similar nonsense."

"So you won't attend the performance?"

"Not I."

My jaw dropped. "But Holmes, of course you must go! Firstly, it would aggrieve his Excellency if you didn't. Secondly, as you pointed out yourself, it would be an irresponsible waste to let those expensive seats remain vacant. And thirdly, you would miss, of that I am sure, a first-rate rendition, with some of the greatest actors of our time."

"And fourthly, I am determined not to go. His Excellency will not notice my absence as he himself is likely to refrain from attending this insufferable humbug, being a man of remarkably good sense. The same applies to me, naturally, so there is no need for your concern that I might miss something of any consequence to me. And last but not least, you and Mrs. Watson would render me a tremendous service if you filled in the seats in question tonight."

"Oh!" I exclaimed, pleased and disappointed at the same time. "It is wonderfully handsome of you to suggest it – but it won't do, I'm afraid. Mary is on a short visit to her mother, and I don't expect her back before the end of the week."

"Of course." My companion slapped his forehead with the palm. "I _did _deduce it."

"How?"

"Why, your visits nowadays necessitate the unavailability of your wife", Sherlock Holmes elaborated accurately, but without pity. "When you called on me last week, she was embroiled in a project to relieve the London Poor. And when we solved the ambassador's case a fortnight ago, she stayed with a friend who expected confinement."

"But…her mother?" I muttered weakly.

"A rather hot weather, don't you think? Your wife, being the good Christian to the core, never leaves you except when somebody is in need of help. It is, for the most, elderly people who suffer from the heat waves at this time of the year. Since I know her father, Captain Morstan, to be dead, I presumed that her mother was the sufferer she hurried to assist."

"Very well", I sighed. It made me sad to think that Mary should be deprived of such a treat by circumstance, when I could offer her something comparable only very rarely. The same instant, I became aware of how sorry I myself was to be deprived of it, being a great admirer of the bard and of drama in general. I was about to sigh again, when a sudden idea flashed my mind. "Holmes!" I cried, "what if I accompanied you? Would you be inclined to go, then?"

"Inclined? I shall be bored to death! I _hate_ the theatre, Watson!"

This I knew not to be true. Holmes, being a capable and versatile actor himself, admired able performers, even if few ever found his approval.

"Only imagine", I coaxed, "such a spectacle! You know, of course, that Sir Phillip Evans, manager and leading actor of the Theatre Royal, has lately gathered the entire elite of young actors around himself, composing an ensemble of immeasurable talents for his productions."

Holmes snarled. "Young and inexperienced, so I hear! I can see it all before me now: A bunch of stuttering and staggering adolescents, giving themselves grand airs, the sugar sweet flowery décor, and it's all about LOVE, Watson! Good gracious, does this prospect not send a distinctly sickening shudder down your spine?"

"Great feelings!" I endeavoured to persuade him. "Great passions from the quill of a literary genius!"

"I can't bear it", he moaned, getting up and roaming the chamber.

"Come for my sake!" I pleaded. "I shall be indebted to you ever after!"

"I _shall_ get bored, doctor", he warned me in a querrulous voice.

While this announcement made me wince internally, I returned fortitiously: "I shall see to it that in future, my leisure will be divided between your cases and my domestic interests to equal amounts."

"Hum!" He wavered.

"Done?" I asked eagerly.

He shot another menacing glance at me. "I _shall_ get bored."

By no means did his prediction come true. Comfortably installed on the plush balcony seat, I was perfectly satisfied to now and then avert my eyes from the stage and hazard a glance at my companion. Presumably an outward observer would hasten to the conclusion that he had fallen asleep, with his eyes drooping and the blissful, far-away expression upon his protruding features.

I, however, knew this bearing to be much to the credit of the performers, had they just been able to see and interpret the signs. At times, he had assumed the same pose when listening to the problems of his clients, and in fact it indicated that his senses opened, widened and became more able to absorb information, while his mental powers of concentration and imagination increased to the highest degree attainable.

I am not a vain man, yet I believe that for once I shared his thoughts and sensations, as his reactions to the show resembled mine: During the scenes of action, we drew breath hastily and in irregular intervals, and when I felt laughter tickling the back of my throat, I could hear his soft chuckle.

Of course the acting was marvelous. My antics to lure Holmes here had not consisted of empty words - onstage, the crème de la crème had assembled. The opening scene already was as sweet as a kiss, without being sentimental in the least.

"_Oh! Methinks how slow/this old moon wanes, she lingers my desires…"_

I consulted my program to identify the actors incorporating _Theseus,_ _Duke of Athens_, and his betrothed _Hippolyta_. Lifting the lorgnette to my eyes, I was able to observe them closer. The Duke was Sir Phillip Evans himself, a man well beyond the fifties, but still attractive in a dark, handsome way. Despite the romantic part, a certain sense of tragedy wafted from his every movement, he acted calmly, but when I caught a glimpse of his deep blue eyes, they seemed to be filled with profound sadness.

The woman by his side was a newcomer, Lavinia Wilmot by name, and of a subtle, yet breathtaking beauty. She was _white, _as white as white can be, and so gloriously fair – small, frail, but endowed with a captivating character, or I was very much mistaken. The wonderful cherry blossom tone of her skin was even more emphasized by the bright muslin frock she wore…still she managed not to resemble a piece of wedding cake.

It seemed to me that she and Evans embodied a perfect match: His brunette virility, imposing and powerful, and her lovely, blonde delicacy. It was as if sun and moon had agreed to rise simultaneously and shine side by side. I communicated my reflections to Holmes, who quirked an eyebrow at me.

"Really, Watson, you can assume the most ridiculous view of things at times. Yet I must confess I imagined it to be more horrid. One has to be glad that we have been spared the fake blossoms and the nude angel tapestries."

I sniffed and returned my attention to the stage, where in the meantime _Hermia _had made her appearance, played by Elizabeth Bicester.

"_And in the wood, where often you and I/ upon faint primrose beds were wont to lie/emptying our bosoms of their council sweet/there my_ _Lysander and myself shall meet",_ she recited ardently.

Again I grasped my lorgnette in order to reinforce my eyesight. The maid was very young, seventeen or eighteen years I should estimate, and pretty in her own way. She was fierce, wiry, and dark eyes glowed beneath a mob of grizzled chestnut locks. Somehow I was reminded of an agile, untamed little animal, a bit frightened, and always ready to use its claws in self-defence. All the same, her acting was skilled and precise.

"_And thence from Athens turn away our eyes/ and seek new friends and stranger companies."_

"Mark the lad", Holmes murmured and my eye sought the chap referred to, _Lysander_, a man in his late twenties, clad in a light summer suit. His arms thrown wide apart, he called: _"Helena, adieu! As you on him, Demetrius dote on you!"_

I was puzzled as to what my friend was interested in, for despite the lad's brightness of temper and a certain flamboyant demeanour, it could be plainly seen that he was the weakest spot in the whole ensemble.

When I threw him a quizzical glance, my boswell laughed in his typical, noiseless fashion. "The young gentleman appears to be a trifle careless. He forgot to take off his wedding ring."

I narrowed my eyes and peered down on the man. Holmes was right, of course. The slim, gold band around the actor's finger certainly did not go well with his part.

"Kindly look up the name of the performer", my friend said listlessly.

I picked up the program. "It is a certain Jeremy Miller."

"Miller…" Holmes pondered. "Is not that the name of the theatre star having great success lately?"

"You mean Catherine Miller?" I asked eagerly, for I must concede having a bit of a soft spot for the diva of modern theatre.

"I think so. A tall brunette. She played in _Emilia Galotti_, _Le malade imaginaire_ and _Lady Windermere's fan_ this year, not to mention minor parts in important productions.

I was a little surprised at Holmes' exact knowledge on a matter that clearly was of no interest to him, but then I remembered that he used to keep ahead with the events of high society, even submitting himself to the task of reading gossip rags.

"Indeed! She is in the cast!" I pointed excitedly at the leaflet in my hand. "This other fellow would be her husband, then."

"Bravo, Watson. A shrewd observation", Mr. Holmes teased. "But let us be silent! Here comes said actress."

And come she did. Oh my soul! It was just as well that tight shackles bonded me with another woman, else I might have lost my head in mindless adoration. She was delicious! Boyish, yet graceful, her head a swirling glory of soft chestnut waves. By no means a classical beauty, she enthralled both ladies and gentlemen with an indescribable, irresistible _something_, which it was hard to elude. And her play! It was blithe, fluent, seemingly effortless, and I could but marvel at the way she portrayed the stern, but still lovely character of _Titania._

"_What! Jealous Oberon. Fairies, skip hence: I have forsworn his bed and company."_

I sat entranced until she left the scene, inhaling deeply when I realized I had been left breathless.

When the curtain had fallen for the last time and applause surged, I turned to Holmes, clapping my raised hands. "That was not too bad, was it, old man?" I shouted over the general exclamations of enthusiasm.

He shook his head gravely. "Indeed not. However, it will moderate your nearly indecent hilarity, my good doctor, to call to your mind what you have brought into the bargain. I shall expect you at Baker Street tomorrow, at eight a.m. exactly."

My face fell and I began to brood over a forceful retort, when, by means of a sudden jerk, the thick velveteen curtains of our box where ripped apart with the gesture of unwavering determination.

**Here we go again! I wish you a pleasant time with this, and under no circumstances disappoint my greed for reviews! They are the very soil I plant my chapters on.**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter two: Exposition

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

I shielded my eyes from the bright light suddenly falling through the doorway. To my indescribable astonishment, they beheld the figure of Lavinia Wilmot, still in her white muslin, but wrapped into a dark cloak of some soft material. What might she be her suit, I wondered? And why had she come up with her costume still on, sheathed in this imperfect incognito? The girl seemed to be considerable agitated, for when we failed to answer immediately, she went on:

"I am here on behalf of the establishment. Something terrible has happened. I must ask you to come at once."

"Certainly, madam", I replied smoothly. "But allow me, despite the urgency we are summoned with, to congratulate you on your overwhelming performance."

She smiled a broad, grateful smile, although her words were short clipped.

"Thank you sir, but there really is no time for niceties. Hurry, gentlemen, I beg of you."

Holmes demonstrated his acquiescence by rising and gathering his gloves and silken top hat. Slipping out of the box, we followed the lead of Miss Wilmot, who in her impatience waved at us frantically.

Passing a _staff only _sign and stepping into a dismal staircase, we swiftly descended into the backstage area. Miss Wilmot was well ahead of us all the time, but when we reached a door obviously communicating with a bureau or assembly room, the maid halted and turned around brusquely.

"They are all in here, gentlemen. I must prepare you for the fact that they will possibly not take well to my calling you into the matter."

She attempted to proceed into the room, when Sherlock Holmes caught her by the arm.

"Wait a minute, Miss Wilmot. You have yet to tell us what it is that has happened."

She hesitated, inhaling deeply. "It is Catherine", she said frankly. "We missed her at the last curtain. It seemed unlike her not to accept the applause that was her due, so I went to her boudoir to look after her."

There was yet another pause.

"Yes, Miss Wilmot?" Holmes pressed, his patience fading away quickly.

"She was there", the girl whispered, "she was lying on the floor – blood everywhere. It was so much that I could not locate the origin at first sight. She has been stabbed, gentlemen."

I uttered an expression of horror. Dead? Catherine Miller dead? The active, lively girl we had been watching not twenty minutes ago?

"I know." Lavinia Wilmot hung her head. "She was my best friend."

My heart overflowed with sympathy for the beautiful mourner, but Holmes, naturally, remained untouched and dismissed her demeanour with a sigh, like something particularly tiresome.

"Yes, yes, yes, of course, Miss Wilmot. My most sincere commiserations. Maybe, we should now do as you suggested, and get over with the task of imposing our services upon your colleagues?"

Lavinia managed to re-gather her countenance admirably quick. "Assuredly. Please to enter."

She opened the door and guided us into a chamber full of people, who turned around and registered us with curious glances.

"Lavinia!" Sir Phillip Evans came forth with outstretched arms. "I am so sorry, my dear."

"Thank you, Mr. Evans. I'm – I'm fine."

He took her hand and patted it awkwardly.

Lowering her voice, she asked: "How is Jeremy?"

A particularly hopeless expression spread on Sir Phillips melancholic face. With a slight shrug of the shoulder, he turned his head to the back of the room, where the young man sat sunken upon a bench, issuing hoarse, dry sobs from time to time. Miss Elizabeth Bicester stood next to him, resembling moroseness personified, her sullen young face betraying signs of considerable grief.

"It is terrible", Lavinia said gently. "For all of us."

"Indeed, indeed…the manager's ocean blue eyes had found us and quizzed us with a polite look.

"Oh…pray let me introduce." Lavinia stepped aside, leaving room for me, and indicating my person gracefully. "Sir Phillip Evans – Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

I vehemently shook my head when her misconceiving dawned upon me. "Oh no, dear Miss Wilmot – I am Doctor Watson, and _this _is Mr. Holmes."

"Ah."

I thought I saw her fair brow cloud slightly on receiving the correction. "Excuse the mistake, sir. Well, Dr. Watson – Mr. Evans, then. Mr. Evans – Sherlock Holmes."

My friend stepped forward and grasped the actors extended right hand. "Delighted, sir. Pray, where is the body of the deceased?"

Mr. Evans, for everyone seemed to call him that, frowned a little at his directness. "Poor Catherine is still in her boudoir. I locked the door so that nobody should be able to interfere before the police arrive."

"Quite so, but surely you wouldn't mind if I interfered a little?"

Mr. Evans looked indeed as if he minded a great deal, yet he demurred: "In an instant, if you please. I am convinced you would like me to introduce you to the rest of our ensemble. You must excuse the condition of some…" he cast a doubtful glance at Jeremy, who still ignored his surrounding, crying mindlessly, "…but we are much disturbed."

"Naturally. A formal introduction will be quite unnecessary. Doctor, would you…?"

I approached Jeremy with caution, but he was reduced to a state of oblivious apathy.

"With your permission, Mr. Evans", Holmes remarked, "I will now ask your employés a few questions."

Bending over Jeremy, I examined his condition, whilst Mr. Holmes talked to the young girl, Elizabeth Bicester.

"Miss Bicester. It would be of great service to me to have exact knowledge about the footing each of you was on with Mrs. Miller. Pray may I learn your relations with her?"

"No, you may not!" his vis-à-vis responded fierily. "I do not see how it is that you are justified to intrude upon our affairs!"

"Elizabeth!" Mr. Evans reprimanded. "Mr. Holmes has come to assist in this tragedy. His name alone gives him full authority to do so."

Some of the persons present exchanged glances clearly signifying that they did not share his view, yet nobody dared to speak up.

"I am Catherine's sister", the admonished girl moped. "is that sufficient information for you?"

"I'am afraid not quite, Miss Bicester. How long have you and your sister been employed at this theatre?"

"I have been here a couple of years", the cautious reply came. "Cathy joined us only lately, after she had been acting on several other stages of notable renommée. Jeremy – that is her husband – ", she indicated the prone figure I attended to, "also got an employment on her recommendation."

"Thank you, Miss Bicester. And you, Mr. – "he turned to a blond, muscular tall man, who according to my memory had been playing the part of _Oberon._ " – Cyril Monroe?", Holmes said, checking on his program for the name.

"I had no particular relations with Catherine, save that I was her counterpart in the play", the actor replied obediently. "I saw her last when we exited the stage after our last scene. I then instantly joined my colleagues, who had finished their parts as well, in the restroom. We remained there until the curtain fell."

"I see…" Sherlock Holmes stroked his mouth with the index, a pensive crease between his eyes. "I take it we can fix the span between the _exeunt_ and the last curtain as the time of murder, if a murder indeed has been perpetrated. This leaves us with a couple of scenes featuring _Puck, Helena, Hermia, Lysander, Demetrius, Hippolyta,_ _Theseus _and the half dozen of men playing the handcrafters of Athens."

"The latter can hardly have anything to do with the deed", Mr. Monroe argued. "They stuck together as well, and joined the company in the restroom just a little later than myself."

"Splendid." My friend exclaimed, rubbing his hands. "Who else has an alibi?"

A short, bald headed man, _Puck_, I believe, took the word. "I can provide one for _Helena_ and _Demetrius_, who are a couple not only onstage, but also in real life. They departed immediately after completing their last scene, as she has been a little under the weather all evening. I saw them on their way home myself, after asking whether I could be of any assistance. They took a cab bound for Hounslowe, where I know them to have their apartment."

"Marvelous. The possibilities narrow down wonderfully. When was that?"

"After their last scene, as I said, the scene including the performance of _Pyramus and Thisbe_. I was forced to hurry back when they were gone, since I was in the closing scene."

"Ah yes, very naturally. In this case, I suppose you yourself may be eradicated from the list of suspects. That is good luck indeed. It appears all comes down on four persons, then."

His eyes sought the bewildered Lavinia, the embarassed Mr. Evans, the infuriated Elizabeth and the devastated Jeremy Miller, one after the other.

"Mr. Holmes", Lavinia said tentatively, "it is not impossible that somebody from the audience has made his or her way into the backstage area. Would you not consider it as likely?"

"Hardly so", Holmes cut her off, not deigning to explain any further. The young woman winced slightly, the frown on her brow ever increasing. The detective ignored her, crossing over swiftly to Mr. Evans. "This is all information I require at present. You may now show us the body of the demised."

"One second!" I interposed. "It would be best if Mr. Miller could be escorted home, taken into consideration that he has experienced a severe nervous shock."

"All right, sir. I shall see the poor chap home", Mr. Monroe volunteered.

"Very well", Mr. Holmes resumed. "Now if you please, Mr. Evans?"

It was, as Miss Lavinia has described, the most horrible mess conceivable. Even when we approached the door, there were tiny spots and sprinkles of red liquid on the walls left and right of us. Mr. Evans thrust the key into the hole and opened, giving clear view of the blood-drenched, abnormally twisted figure of the now barely recognizable Catherine Miller. Although in all probability they had taken a look before, the ladies started, and Mr. Evans quickly took off the dark theatre cloak he wore over the _Duke of Athens'_ habit, covering the corpse with it.

"My god." I turned to Lavinia, who, unable to compose herself any further, hid her tearful face at the shoulder of Elizabeth, who patted her back absently, remaining perfectly silent.

"We were such good friends…always the best of friends…"

I shot a glance at Holmes, who had got on his knees and now was engaged in examining the body, for which purpose he lifted the cloak, shielding the sight from us with his back.

"I can understand. You have known her for long?"

"Very long", Lavinia sniffed, retrieving a handkerchief from her skirts and dabbing her eyes with it, "Our mothers already were friends, you see." She drew a shuddering breath. "I beg your pardon, doctor…but it's all so…disgusting."

"Of course", I muttered, touching her shoulder softly, but when I tried to apply the same comfort to Elizabeth Bicester, she sidestepped me in a nearly aggressive fashion. Mr. Evans did not say a word either, but I took this taciturn manner to be his natural bent. We stood silently, the three of us, somehow all soothing Lavinia, until Holmes re-covered the body and rose from the floor.

"Well, well. This has been most instructive. However, my ears discern the not too soft tread of Inspector Gregson, so it may be time for Watson and me to beat a retreat."

And we hastened to do so, ere the massive form of the Scotland Yard official appeared in the doorway.

Later that night, back at Baker Street, I reviewed the events of our _soirée_. The good news was, of course, that Holmes was once more occupied in a comparatively harmless way, even if it had cost the life of my personal onstage favourite. Or was he? At the moment, he was handling his most awful smelling chemicals, ruining the delicate aroma of my Turkish cigar.

"I wonder, Holmes", I uttered loudly, "Whether you would not make better use of your time by seeing through your newest mystery."

"Ha!" He issued a sound between a laugh and a snort. "There was, I'm afraid, not much of a mystery to it. Anyway, I am employed otherwise at present."

As much was obvious. Still in his evening habit, he stood bent over his work bench, a pipet in one hand and a Bunsen burner in the other, his white silken scarf sadly misused as an underlay for several test tubes of suspiciously coloured contents.

"It does not interest you?" I ventured, pinching my nose with two fingers, for the smell really was abominable.

"It does!" he exclaimed, steam suddenly invading our cosy sitting room. "However, there is nothing further to be done today. The whole affair, by the way, is as clear as the day."

"What!" I let go of my nose, regretting it the very instant. "So you discovered something on the corpse, didn't you?"

He flashed me a quick smile that was meant to madden me.

"What was it, then?" I urged, already aware that I would not learn it in foreseeable future.

"A thing of vital importance. Evidence!" he called, inciting the Bunsen and fixing one of the test tubes above, thus creating a gruesome kind of witches' kitchen.

"Really?" I used my handkerchief for my air passages, determined, rather quixottishly, to persevere.

"Oh yes! But while being the essential thing, it offers us little in the way of proof. Proof, Watson! All evidence is invalid without proof!"

"Do you have a suspicion, at least?" I enquired, teardrops forming in my eyes.

"A distinct one. Nonetheless, the investigation is in too early a stage for the communication of theories."

"Then it must be one of the four actors, indeed it must!" I pondered. "It seems all so incredible. They seemed so natural, so sincere in their feelings…"

"That is why they are actors. Never let that slip your mind, Watson. They can display a certain emotion when, where and to what degree they see fit. It is not surprising that everybody appears as he or she should. The woeful friend…the abashed employer…the desperate husband… the bereaved sister…each and every one could be a mean farce."

"But – where is the motive?" I cried cluelessly, unable to digest the conception.

"Precisely. That is the question." He took his pestle and started to grind some powder. "Where – is - the motive?"

**Jay, it's great to be back! Have your revolvers and magnifying lenses ready, guys!**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter three: The scene of the crime

**Disclaimer: I do not own the "Tales of Mystery and Imagination", either! And that **_**is **_**a pity!**

On the preceding day, my friend Mr. Holmes was in a particularly foul mood, so that I dared not question him about his intended approach to the problem. After being barked at repeatedly (though not as often as Mrs. Hudson, poor soul!) and quite causelessly, I settled down close to the window that stood ajar, enjoying the deliciously cool, fresh draught and wistfully thinking of the shady, budding parks in the city. To entertain myself, I took up some books I had brought in case there should be idle running. At present, it seemed that there would be nothing at all apart from idle running, and I had come to think that his summoning me had been a mere caprice of Holmes, and that he did not intend to pursue the case, when he spun around where he stood, pointing at the back of my book accusingly.

"What is that?"

"It is Edgar Alan Poe's horror stories. I am quite into them currently."

He gave an utterance of wholehearted disdain. "If you adhere to your weakness for these sensationalist Americans, it will be the death of your literary style!" he prophesied.

I quirked an eyebrow at him. "I was not aware that you knew I had what is called literary style. In fact, I have been hearing rather the contrary from you at times."

He flicked his frock tails and sat down at my side restlessly. "Now do not drown in self-commiseration. You know – and I do – that you are doing quite well with the fashion you have composed your reports in. This Poe fellow however, he is not worth a farthing that may ever have been spent on his scribble. I suppose you recall our discussion of his detective stories?"

"Indeed I do", I replied with an exasperated sigh.

"Precisely. Now what impression does that give to the public, concerning the work of a professional investigator? It takes him half an eternity to find out an ape had strangled these women – I could have told you so at first glance. He is unable to find a purloined document – and it is lying open on the table all the time. No, no, no. my dear Watson. Compared to this heresy, your own romanticized narratives appear rather tame."

I gave him a vexed look, since my opinion was not altered one jot and indeed I found Auguste Dupin's methods strongly resembling those of my companion.

"Fine. May I now read what is to my unrefined taste, old man?"

"Certainly."

He got up and marched the room, biting his nails, whilst I resumed my favourite story _"The tell-tale heart"._ It is my express wish to recommend it to those of my readers that have not as yet perused it. The story is a masterpiece of suspense, psychology and subtle horror. The subject is an old man who is frightened in his bed every night when his mental host steals in slowly, driven by irrational hatred of the man's eye. I had come to the point where the old chap eventually is killed by the madman, when there was a knock on the door and Mrs. Hudson walked in.

"The cab you ordered me to call, . It is waiting downstairs."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!" he broadly smiled at her, and she withdrew, confused by the sudden, erratic changes in his mood. Holmes turned and waved at me.

"Come along, Watson!" he cried, before dashing out to the wardrobe.

"But…wait, Holmes…give me a second…" I closed my book, grabbed my hat and cane and tripped out of the room in a hurry.

The Theatre Royal in Drury Lane was closed down during the day, however we were admitted by the elderly caretaker, who ushered us into the office of Mr. Evans. The manager was sitting at his desk, dealing with some paperwork, and the blonde Mr. Monroe, in another corner of the room, was typing busily. On our arrival, the work was interrupted briefly, and we were welcomed courteously.

"Pray take a seat", Mr. Evans invited us. "I will be at your disposal in a minute. There is just an entry to the books I would like to complete…"

Indeed take him long it did not, what with the monotonous tapping of my collegue's walking stick was very plausible. Meanwhile, Mr. Monroe continued his typing task imperturbably.

"Very well, gentlemen", Mr. Evans finally said, folding his hands on the tabletop. "in what way can I serve you?"

"I would like to go a little deeper into that backstage tragedy of yours", Mr. Holmes said blithely. "Actually, it astounds me that the running of the play has not been cut short by this incident."

Mr. Evans raised his eyebrows. "I am running a business here, Mr. Holmes. It may seem callous to you – but the show must go on."

"Ah yes, of course. You would be lacking two major parts now, I presume?"

"Indeed. But there are alternative impersonators, you know."

"Very probably there are. Mr. Evans, you have heard the conclusions we came to yester night, have you not? Could you think of a motive anybody might have had for slaughtering Mrs. Miller in this most aggressive fashion?"

His addressee shook his head slowly. "Certainly not. Catherine has not been with us long, but she was becoming a brick to the theatre – the star capturing the public notice. I cannot conceive a way we shall be able to do without her."

"Was she capricious?"

"Actors are vain folks. Yet she was not worse than any of the others."

"Hum. What about her husband, that unhappy young man? Is he likely to recover?"

Genuine grief clouded the eyes of Sir Phillip Evans. "To be honest, I do not believe so", he admitted. "He seems…a broken man."

"Do you think he might do – something foolish?"

"I sincerely hope not, sir."

"Miss Bicester mentioned Mr. Miller joined the theatre company alongside his wife. Do you consider him a valuable member of the ensemble?"

Mr. Evans' doleful features softened into a slight smile. "As you will have remarked for yourself, Mr. Holmes, he is far from being a brilliant man. Oh, he does well enough with a certain kind of part, and then that's that. To tell the truth, I only employed him because Catherine made it a condition to her signing the contract.

"Oh? Was that a wise course of action, Mr. Evans?"

"I considered it as such at the time. He does no harm, you know. He is given the same funny, gallant character in every production, and he does not even notice, if you ask me."

My friend smiled an involuntary smile. "Very cunning, I'm sure, but now to something entirely different. We should like to browse the playhouse a little, and acknowledging that you are a very busy man, I wondered whether you might not ask one of your acting personal to show us around. For instance…Miss Bicester?"

The manager sighed. "It is quite impossible, I'm afraid. She is onstage at the moment, rehearsing with our new _Lysander_, and most of the others are, too. Perhaps would be so kind…?"

"Very sorry, sir", Cyril Monroe answered, turning around in his chair, "I am due on stage myself in some ten minutes. As a matter of course, we have to try the new _Titania_, as well."

"Ah. That is unfortunate."

"But", the handsome Mr. Monroe proceeded, "to my knowledge Lavinia is free at present. Shall I get her?"

Mr. Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "It would do the trick, I suppose."

"Very well. I will tell her." Out he went. Mr. Evans looked after him with a sort of fatherly affection.

"Capital fellow, Cyril is. He is a great aid to me these days, even more in matters of bureaucracy than in artistic questions."

"He has a turn for management?"

"Very much so. I should even expect him to succeed me when I shall have to quit someday. It is to be hoped for, at least."

"Quite so." There was a pause, during which my friend twisted his fingers thoughtfully. "What do you think of Miss Wilmot?" He suddenly asked.

A cautious expression appeared on the face of Mr. Evans. "Only the best", he returned stiffly. "She is a first-rate actress of great personal accomplishments and has been with us a considerable number of years."

"Assuredly. I quite agree with your good opinion of her talent, though I wonder why it is that she did not play one of the principal characters."

"It was not a question of talent", Mr. Evans said brusquely. "Lavinia acts wonderfully, but she has nerves. The more important the part, the worse it gets. Even yesterday, she was awfully exited prior to the show. No soothing would help. I decided at an early stage to give her the part of Hippolyta, for her own sake. It is a character much suited to her – a fair, distinguished lady of admirable virtues."

"Certainly. She has been good friends with the deceased, I understand?"

"They were very close."

"And Mrs. Miller has been employed only lately?"

"Yes. I met her first as a friend of Lavinia's, and immediately found her sufficiently fitting for the part of _Titania._ Personally, I would have preferred Lavinia, but as I said, her nerves could not be relied on, so I was glad to have found a tolerable replacement in time."

"Miss Wilmot did not object to your decision?"

"Oh no." He shook his head determinedly. "Lavinia is very professional. She would never be so petty as to complain out of hurt vanity."

"Is that so." I was under the impression that my friend wanted to add something, from which he was prevented by the soft knock and consequent entering of the lady in question, dressed in mourning.

"Lavinia." Mr. Evans rose elegantly, his ocean eyes lingering on the actress. "You know our guests of last night, of course."

I smiled at the young lady, and an affable smile lit her face in return, which faded away rapidly when her gaze wandered from me to my boswell. She inclined her head politely.

"Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes. A pleasure to see you again, gentlemen."

"Likewise", my friend returned, passing me swiftly. "Your employer suggested you might be kind enough to show us a little about the house."

She cast an uncertain glance at Mr. Evans, who nodded encouragingly.

"Of course, sir. What is it you wish to see exactly? You must have an object in stating such a desire", she replied wittily.

"It doesn't matter. I would be grateful if you would simply oblige my request, Miss Wilmot", my companion uttered severely. Lavinia gazed up at him, her expression almost defiant. Mr. Evans had emerged from behind his desk and solicitously stood behind his employée.

"If you are engaged otherwise or unable to afford the time, I am sure we can find someone else…" he assured her.

She pulled herself together. "Thank you sir, but it suits me just fine. Gentlemen?"

She made for the door, which was held open already by Mr. Evans, who re-closed it when the three of us had passed.

Miss Wilmot proved to be a most knowledgeable guide. She showed us all of the backstage rooms, the elevating machinery beneath the trap doors under stage, and the lifting apparatus in the attic above stage. When at last I felt like Dante's hero, having aspired from hellish to heavenly spheres, we entered the audience area and were allowed to rest for a while. As Mr. Monroe had told us, there were Elizabeth Bicester and some others on the scene currently, rehearsing the third act. "You know, Miss Wilmot", I said pensively, averting my eyes from Elizabeth, "killing Catherine Miller seems such a queer thing to do for anyone. I suppose you could not come up with a motive if I asked you to?"

"Why, of course not, sir. Not that I was aware of any. However, as I mentioned previously, someone from the audience might have sneaked behind the scene and taken her life for an unknown reason."

I could hear my friend snort contemptuously.

Gently coughing, I explained: "It might have been so in theory, naturally. However, Mr. Holmes has already dismissed this possibility."

"Ah. Then of course", she concurred, with a faint sense of irony.

"Yes. He has quite made up his mind that the murderer is to be found in the ranks of your peers."

My eyes wandered back to Elizabeth, who at this moment cried: _"Lysander, whereto tends all this?" _in an inconceivable agony.

Holmes' thoughts seemed to have taken a like itinerary, for he tersely inquired: "Pray, what do you know of about Miss Elizabeth Bicester?"

Lavinia cleared her throat. "Quite a lot. Being Catherine's sister, she has been nearly as much in my company as my unfortunate friend, and oft times we played together. She came here when still a child, only fourteen years of age. No, fifteen, it was in the year that Mr. Evans was knighted, if my memory does not fail me. Eliza lives in Chelsea with…with now only Jeremy", she said slowly, her brow creasing slightly.

"What was the two sisters' relation like?" Holmes desired to know.

"Oh, they liked each other well enough…naturally it is always difficult when two persons are so very much alike, there is inevitably some kind of rivalry. Nonetheless, the only apple of discord I could imagine to have existed between them would have been money. As it is the custom, Catherine would, as the eldest child, have inherited her father's considerable fortune, with Elizabeth receiving a yearly allowance."

"Really? This is very instructive. What was master Jeremy's attitude towards the impending inheritance?"

The girl shrugged her delicate shoulders. "It was his desire to build a house in the countryside. He loathes the city, and he loathes living in a rented house. He wanted neither Cathy nor himself to remain on the stage for the rest of their lives. But of course, Cathy wouldn't hear of his designs. The theatre was her life and she intended to invest in it both personally and financially."

"Ah, and naturally this drove a wedge between husband and wife."

"No, do not get me wrong. Jeremy would never have dreamt of harming Catherine."

"What about Mr. Evans?" Holmes asked bluntly. The fair maid flinched.

"Nor he."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Well, there does not seem to be any motivation."

I nodded, but Holmes was not satisfied. "Does not _seem_? Whatever can you mean by that, Miss Wilmot?"

She kneaded her hands in her lap nervously. "I – I am not sure – I might be subject to a false impression – and Mr. Evans is such a perfect gentleman – and yet – "

"And yet?"

She lifted her head to meet his gaze. "I think…he hated Catherine."

**Eep! Do not listen to Sherlock! Do read Poe/Shakespeare!**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter four: Aside

It took us a moment to recover from the choc this communication purported. Mr. Holmes exhaled with a hiss.

"What gives you this impression, Miss Wilmot?"

She shifted in her chair uncomfortably. "I cannot tell – it is just that – an impression. It might be completely wrong…"

"Nonetheless, you should have informed us earlier. Do not you understand that we have to know _everything_?" he chided her.

I watched her with heartfelt pity, as she writhed beneath his glare.

"It seems so – so ungrateful – I mean to say, with Mr. Evans always being so kind to me…"

"Oh he is, of course. I nearly failed to recall how very kind he is to you", Mr. Holmes sneered. "If, however, you wish the mystery of your friend's death to be unraveled, you will have to abandon your inadmissible partialities, so as to render an unbiased judgment on my part possible."

"I am trying to!" she revolted.

"Well, we will have to augment our efforts, won't we?" he said, a little more friendly.

"Y – yes", she mumbled. "Where shall we begin?"

"I should like to call on the invalid, Mr. Jeremy Miller. Taken into account that you are familiar with his household, perhaps you would not mind giving us an introduction?"

"No, of course not. We could start at once."

"But surely you will be missed on stage?" I argued.

"Not today, doctor. I came merely to supervise the rehearsal, but my presence is not required until tonight's rendition."

"Capital!" Mr. Holmes cried cheerily. "Let us go to Chelsea and see how the young man is faring who has been so much beaten by fate lately."

Once we had found ourselves a cab and were on our way, my friend bent over to Miss Wilmot, inquiring: "Now that you proposed Mr. Evans as a suspect, I would like you to tell us everything you know about him. Would you be prepared to share your knowledge with us?"

"Naturally, Mr. Holmes. It is little enough. Mr. Evans has been acting for the greater part of his life, descending a family of renowned stage performers. He is brilliant in his roles, a capable manager and a generous employer."

"Hear, hear. Quite a model for mankind, our Mr. Evans. By the way, why is it that nobody ever refers to him with his given title?"

"He would not have it", the young girl professed. "When he entered knighthood three years ago, he insisted that we should continue to address him as Mr. Evans. He is a very modest gentleman – a rarity in our profession."

"Quite so." Mr. Holmes smiled pleasantly, although I knew he could not be impressed with modesty, be it fake or genuine. "He does not have any flaws whatsoever, then? No vices? No bad passions?"

"Well…" she faltered, then made an effort. "I have reason for the assumption that he drinks. Not frequently, mind you. Just now and then, when depressions seize him. I believe he seeks comfort in alcohol."

I gazed to the floor of the rolling cab in embarrassment. This sounded painfully familiar. In contrast to me, however, Holmes did not appear to make a connection between the managers assumed weakness and his own addiction.

"He does? Why is he in need of this peculiar kind of comfort, can you tell?"

"I could indeed. You see, there have been some tragedies in his life, namely of late. I noticed signs of drink on him ever since his wife died…that was two years ago."

"Do you know what she did die of?"

"Grief, Mr. Holmes. They had one single daughter – Meredith – a fragile maid, ever suffering from tuberculosis. When she was just eighteen, she was sent to the Riviera, to the small village of St. Tropez. But her recovery would not come. Instead of better, she grew worse within a couple of months – I understand there has been an unhappy love affair, which hurried things to an end. Meredith died just half a year after her arrival in southern France, and Mrs. Evans died soon afterwards."

"This is abominable!" I exclaimed. Holmes nodded gravely.

"It certainly is a tragedy worthy of one Sir Phillip Evans."

Chelsea was not a grand place in the late eighties, yet it could boast some very beautiful villas, set back from the street exclusively, and surrounded by fresh, trim gardens. It was just in front of such a mansion that we alighted, a bright house with an _art nouveau façade_ and large French windows opening onto the lawn. That a man of Jeremy Miller's age should object to such a home seemed ridiculously immodest to me, for it was much more than a retired army surgeon like me could ever dream of possessing. But then, I have noticed, young people are ever craving for more. We passed the spiky, iron-wrought fence and went up a gravel path with a birch grove to our left and neat rose beds to our right. As usual, Holmes formed our _avant garde_, pressing the ringing button with the tip of his cane. The door was opened by an elderly woman with a friendly face but rather annoyed look on it. She was dressed in black, with a stiff white apron and nurse bonnet, and out of her left dress pocket stuck a pair of knitting needles.

"Good afternoon, lady and gentlemen", she greeted us. "I am Nurse Fawcett. Presumably you came to see Mr. Miller, but I assure you it is altogether impossible. Miss Bicester has prohibited any visits."

"I am sorry to hear it", Mr. Holmes responded regretfully. "Is he still in such a plight?"

"He is better now, sir. Personally, I believe it would perhaps not upset him too much to receive one visitor, but three are too many anyway and Miss Bicester forbade it explicitly and unrelentingly."

"In case we promised to hurry the interview, would you be inclined to allow us in? It would afford him some change of company, and you the break you so eagerly anticipate to see to that tricky piece of knitting work."

The nurse looked at him with quite a comical expression on her countenance, puzzled at his remark.

"Please", Miss Wilmot interjected, "would you kindly give my card to Mr. Miller? I am a close friend to the family."

Nurse Fawcett accepted the card, curtsied and disappeared into the house. Mr. Holmes swirled his cane leisurely. "My, my. It is more difficult than I would have expected. Miss Bicester appears to be quite the mistress to the place already."

"She certainly is very headstrong", Lavinia affirmed.

"It would be best if we grasped the chance as long as it offers itself – that is to say, as long as Miss Bicester remains at the theatre", I suggested thoughtfully. "We might not get another one."

As if in answer to my musings, the nurse reappeared on the doorstep. "Mr. Miller declares he is prepared to see you", she informed us in a neutral tone. "Pray enter."

We changed a glance of surprise and obeyed her request, following her into the elegant vestibule with the marble stairs and large chandelier. One thing was for sure: The inhabitants of the house did not suffer from privation. It crossed my mind how extraordinary it was for an artist couple like the Millers to have made so much money at such an early stage of life – the main credit for it would have gone to Catherine, I suppose. An enormous, if not very excellent portrait of her person was covering one of the walls, the canvas extending into all four right angles. Over the mahogany frame, a band of black gauze had been draped. Also the bouquets on the side boards had been covered with crape and the arms of the clock on the mantelpiece had been stopped. A maid stepped in with the ghost-like silence of a well-trained servant, relieving us of our wardrobe.

"To the left, please!" the nurse directed us, opening the door to one of the rooms facing the lawn in front of the house. Entering, I at once perceived the apparent taste Catherine undoubtedly must have possessed, having furnished the parlour carefully with lovely _chinoiseries_, very much in keeping with the latest fashion. There were little lacquered cabinets stocked with delicate blue and white porcelain, large vases containing bamboo canes and a handsome, in-laid game table in the centre of the room. The rear wall was adorned with a japanese raw silk carpet, and in the corner there was a tall folding screen displaying scenes from the ancient folk belief of the Shintos. Near the window, a little living room suite was arranged left and right of a _chaise longue,_ occupied currently by the suffering Jeremy. Indeed he looked rather ghastly, with his face all pasty and sweat beads on his brow that had nothing to do with the hot and humid July weather outside.

"Jeremy!" At once, Miss Wilmot dashed over and flung herself to the floor beside the _chaise longue_. "It's me, dear – it's Ninny. There, there. You don't need to get excited. It is going to be all right."

The handsome young man had indeed showed signs of intense agitation on our entering, yet when he beheld Lavinia's sweet face and heard her gentle murmur, he calmed down a little, if not much.

"Lavinia! I did not do it, I swear – they will say that it was I who killed her, but it's not true! You have to believe me, Ninny…."

"Of course I do, dear."

"But – " he looked at us and suddenly gasped. "Who are they? Did you bring the police? Oh, I beg of you, I am innocent!"

She laid her white hand on his forehead and gently forced it down. "Shoo, shoo. You have nothing to fear. I brought friends, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. They are going to help us."

We stepped closer, and indeed Mr. Miller did not make further objections. Lavinia rose, turned around and silently bade us sit down.

"Now, Jeremy", she began softly as soon as we had been installed, "these gentlemen will ask you some questions and I hope you will be kind and answer them to the best of your knowledge."

"What – questions?"

"Mr. Miller", Holmes said strictly, "your wife has been murdered cruelly. It is not so out of the world to ask questions under such circumstances as you might think."

"I have…nothing to hide", Jeremy asserted.

"I should very much hope so. As to the motive, then. Did you know of any enemy your wife might have had?"

"None", Jeremy whispered, "None. Everybody loved her."

"Hum. The conditions contradict this assumption, don't you think?"

"I don't know", Jeremy wailed, "I don't know! I can think of no enemy!"

"Very well. You can conjecture no hidden grudge. Now to the method. She has been stabbed with a certain atrocity, indicating either a fiery temperament or considerable wrath. Could you imagine any of your peers committing such a vicious deed?"

"None."

"Do you know any of them to be in possession of a dagger?"

"None."

"You are not very forthcoming", my companion observed, a cool inflection creeping into his undertones. "Well then. Let us direct our attention to the victim herself. As her husband, you probably would have known of any secret in her past, any friend she might have wronged, any lover she might have rejected?"

"I would, of course, if there were such a thing. But there is nothing. She was not that kind of person, not Catherine!"

Mr. Holmes bent forward, crossing the distance between himself and Jeremy.

"There must be, Mr. Miller. There must be. She has been _killed_. One does not get killed for nothing. And if you refuse to tell me all you know, then I shall have to find out for myself."

Jeremy started, then he turned to Lavinia. "I told you they would not believe me! I told you so! Ah my god, I shall go to the docks, I know it!"

"Nonsense, darling. You did nothing wrong." She patted and soothed him shooting an angry glance of warning at my friend.

"Bless you, Ninny!" Jeremy almost sobbed. "I do not know how I have deserved your friendship. It is in need that one recognizes one's true friends, you know."

Mr. Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "You refuse to cooperate, which doesn't make a difference to me. But you must be aware that by doing so, you are thwarting the course of justice. I am unable to help if you don't tell me the truth."

"But I did! I did!"

"This is quite enough now, Mr. Holmes!" Lavinia scolded my friend, stiffening in her posture by Jeremy's side.

"Thank you, Miss Wilmot. Your assistance really is invaluable to me", the detective snapped. "Mr. Miller, may I assume that you actually _want_ to see justice be done? Then I fail to comprehend your behaviour. Whom do you fear to incriminate? Is it yourself? Or perhaps your sister-in-law? She has taken over the reign remarkably quick, wouldn't you say? I take it she ordered your nurse to stay with you and keep out unwanted visitors. She has come into the possession of quite a large fortune through the death of your wife, hasn't she?"

"Mr. Holmes!" Miss Wilmot rushed over and faced him with an indignant expression on her delicate features. "Stop it at once! He is a sick man and must be spared this intolerable cross-examination of yours! Had I only known you would…"

"What is this turmoil?"

Four heads turned in amazement. Miss Elizabeth Bicester had appeared in the open door, gloves and hat still in her hands. Obviously she had left at theatre early and now stood on front of us like an apparition. Outwardly cool, she let her gaze roam our figures, from head to toe and back again, all the same I thought I could hear the blood roar in her ears and boil in her veins.

"How dare you, gentlemen!" she hissed in cold fury. "How dare you intrude into my home and disturb the confines of a sick room! You must be quite insane. I should advise you to leave at once, ere I summon the police."

"Miss Bicester – " I tried to intervene, but she cut my words short with an imperative gesture.

"Leave. At once", she spat. Her glare wandered from us to Lavinia, who quite helplessly stood next to my companion, apparently struck with silence.

"Lavinia." The young girl shook her head, struggling to control her rage, making the single word sound like the impact of a slap in the face. "You of all people must bring them here. A fine friend you are. Now get out."

Miss Wilmot extended her hands in an attempt of consolation. "Eliza…"

"Out!" Elizabeth shrieked, suddenly losing her temper and stomping her foot to the ground. "All of you regardless, insensible…"

"Miss Bicester." Holmes stepped up to her and raised his hand, thus silencing her. "In advance to your complimenting us further, I wish to enlighten you upon one incontrovertible fact. Murder _is _quite regardless. And it_ is_ insensible. Wouldn't you agree?" He flashed a quick smile at her, slightly bowed to Jeremy Miller and swept out of the room. Miss Wilmot and I exchanged worried glances, then we followed suit.

**Sorry to leave it for so long, but lately Mr. Holmes had a hard time competing for my leisure with heaps of university assignments, a big sale at the store where I am a shop girl, a guest from the UK and preparations for my birthday party. But as you can see, I was inexorably drawn to Sherlock in the end. Good thing? My dears, I should "very much hope so". ;-)**


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter five: Mimesis

Our departure from Chelsea resembled a flight. With Elizabeth's cries still ringing in our ears, we travelled back to the city. Only once did we make a brief stop, for Mr. Holmes wanted to drop by a telegraph office. He left me in the cab with Miss Wilmot, who, as I became aware now, looked rather miserable.

"You must not make yourself uncomfortable, my dear", I said tentatively. "You did the right thing in taking us to Mr. Miller – though I must apologize for my friend's conduct towards the invalid."

"It is quite alright", the lady assured me. "Only Eliza's words….they made me feel like a traitor."

"Miss Wilmot…"

"No, it is the truth", she argued, fixing her red-rimmed eyes on me. "I behaved shamefully in deceiving my comrade – even if it was for a very good reason."

"Really, I do not think you were…"

I could not complete my sentence, for the door of the carriage was opened, and Mr. Holmes stepped back in briskly.

"We are making a progress", he stated with some satisfaction, if perfectly enigmatically to Miss Wilmot and me. "There is, however, little in the way of action we could undertake at the moment. I suggest lunch as a not altogether unpleasant design. Maybe _Saltarello's_ in Pall Mall wouldn't be quite out of place, don't you think?"

Not bothering to wait for our approval, he rapped the ceiling with his cane, calling: "Cabbie! We are going to St. James' Park!" Then he settled back into his seat, quietly humming in dumb contentment.

Our meal was a cheerful one. I had succeeded in perking up Miss Wilmot, and we were avidly discussing her work at the theatre and the theatrical milieu in general, laughing quite a lot. Mr. Holmes did not take a part in our conversation. Once more, his mood had changed within minutes, and he sat in silence, consuming the whole content of his cigarette case consecutively, a weary expression on his face. I assumed that he was lost in cogitation, as there was a decided frown creasing his brow, and he never did so much as touch the dish which I had ordered for him.

During the years I had shared rooms with him, I had learned it was best not to bother when he chose to be unsociable, so I took no notice and instead focused my attention on our charming lunch companion, whom I already addressed with her Christian name by the time coffee was served. She dipped her mouth delicately with her handkerchief, tossing her blonde head and laughing merrily at a remark of mine on the inability of modern playwrights.

"Oh really, dear Dr. Watson, I had no idea you could be so amusing!" She took her cup and gingerly sipped on it.

"Please, my dear, call me John!" I insisted, enchanted by her pretty blush. "I should consider it as a favour, and besides, if for one moment the thought of unseemliness should occur to you, all you have to do is remember I am newly-wed, abominably old chap."

She giggled softly. "You are not old, Dr Wats – John. You are far from it. Let me express the hope your dear wife appreciates your gift of entertainment – as well as your wide ranging knowledge of beautiful literature."

"You are quite well versed on the subject yourself", I complimented her.

"Not at all. I am well up in dramatic texts, which is due to my profession, but I know scarcely anything about poetry or novels. Much as I am loathe to admit it, until now I have nor even read one of your tales, though they are being praised very much these days. Imagine that!"

"Oh, they are nothing. I am a mere amateur in the art of thrilling _écriture,_ but should you chance to be on the lookout for a veritable adept to the matter, I should ask you to commit yourself to the reading of Mr. Edgar Allan Poe's stories. It so happens I have them with me – of late, I hardly ever leave the house without them."

I removed the tattered booklet from my jacket, handing it over for her inspection. "A stunning read, those tales, I can assure you. Allow me to make an express recommendation of that one."

I pointed to the title of "_The tell-tale heart"_, the page on which it was printed having opened quite of its own volition, as pages do that have been perused more often than others.

"I have heard about this one", Lavinia observed. "It is about the plague invading a carnival party, is it not?"

"Oh no, no, you are mixing them up, my dear. It is about a lunatic who is tormented by the sight of his lodger's eye and makes up his mind to kill the man in order to get rid of the eye."

"How very shocking!" she exclaimed. "Does he succeed?"

"Indeed. He slowly enters the lodger's chamber every night, scaring him terribly. There is a dim concept of breaking the man with the employ of fright, of shock…"

Sherlock Holmes started, as if from profound sleep. I interrupted myself, having almost forgotten his continued presence.

"What was that you said, Watson?"

"Why, I was saying he endeavours to break the man with the employ of shock, silently entering his chamber every night!"

"Who? Whose chamber?"

I waved him away impatiently. "Oh, you did not listen at all, now did you, Holmes!"

I returned to my more attentive and much fairer listener, whereupon Holmes relapsed into sinister musings, lighting another cigarette absent mindedly.

"As I said, he succeeds in the end, the light of his lamp falling into the evil eye and allowing his whole hatred to unfold. Naturally, it needs a little more than mere fright to commit the deed. The madman pulls the bulky bed over his victim, waiting for the man to ooze his life…" I recounted the rest of the story to Lavinia, who sat mesmerized, but Holmes did not say another word and the crease on his forehead remained as if etched into his skin.

After lunch, we ambled out into St. James' Park. Drops of golden sunlight seeped through the dense, dark foliage of the ancient trees, but when we emerged into open space, the sky above us was cloudless and as blue as the Forget-me-not eyes of our lovely companion. It was quiet. Most of the denizens of the closer area had retired to the shady confines of their houses, leaving the park sparsely populated with courting couples, dreamily strolling along the border of the willow pond, and nannies sitting in the shadow of the trees, their young charges lazing about in the grass.

We chose the border path in the direction of Buckingham Palace ourselves, always remaining beneath the willows, as Lavinia had no parasol to screen her flawless, travertine skin with. I had offered her my arm and we wandered slowly, idly, yet always ahead of Holmes, who paused here and there, his arms rigidly folded on his back, peering now at a squirrel sitting on the path and locking its frightful eyes with his, now on the glittering surface of the pond, as if he had never seen a like thing before. We talked very little, so as not to disturb the peaceful clam that can only establish itself in the huge city on such a hot day in July. It was only when we reached the point where the bridge is forming a bow across the pond that I began to speak.

"You know, Holmes", I called back over my shoulder "there is a thing I fail to understand. Why were you so very convinced Mr. Miller was withholding information? His wife has been killed, but it not necessarily follows there was a secret in her past, above all a secret which has been shared with him. What gives you certainty?"

Mr. Holmes took his time answering, disentangling his arms and brushing his hands over his light summer suit meticulously.

"I know there is something", he said slowly, "because it fits. The facts of the case are lying before me and I can to some extent conjecture what it is he refuses to tell us. However, what is the use of a conjecture? If he does not decide to impart his knowledge, I cannot make certain of the truth. Yet we are approaching the solution. During our walk I devised a plan that will wrest the secret from him."

"Oh." Lavinia disengaged herself from my arm. "If this be the case, you will wish me to leave you to yourselves. I am not in your confidence, after all…"

She was about to withdraw, but Sherlock Holmes proved to be quicker, catching her by the wrist.

"Miss Wilmot – Lavinia", he said insistently. "I do have a plan, but I am afraid it will be quite pointless without your participation. You might find rather heavy what I am going to ask of you, however I understand you wish to learn who killed your friend and why. Are you prepared to help us?"

She looked up at him, hesitating briefly. "Yes, I am."

"Excellent." He let go off her arm and turned through 180 degrees, facing the bridge over the pond as he spoke. "It will be necessary to follow my instructions to the letter, so you are well advised in listening attentively. First thing to do, you will return to Chelsea and call on Miss Elizabeth Bicester."

"Eliza?" Lavinias eyes widened in surprise. "I can't, Mr. Holmes! The woman is as mad as a hatter! You heard her! How could I even persuade her to let me in after what…"

"It does not matter to me how you do it", my friend pronounced shortly. "You can throw yourself on your knees for all that I care. Tell her you are so sorry, tell her Catherine's death upset your mind. You may even say we forced you to take us to Mr. Miller."

I watched Lavinia gulp, but Mr. Holmes proceeded, oblivious to her discomfort.

"Until you have come to the point of having assuaged her, it will be late afternoon. You will propose to Miss Bicester to remain with her for the remainder of the day, and then to accompany her to Drury Lane. On your way down the gravel path you will faint and drop to the ground. Miss Bicester, in her hurry, will have no choice but to let the nurse bring you back into the house. She will set off alone and you will be excused at the theatre."

"The show, Mr. Holmes!" Lavinia protested. "I cannot abandon it, under no circumstances!"

He turned back at her swiftly, piercing her with his eyes. "You _must_, Miss Wilmot. There is a murderer on the loose, a murderer that might strike again. You must help us prevent it!"

She averted her eyes. "I agree to follow your instructions."

"Very well." He watched her for one moment more, then he resumed:"You will be alone in the house apart from Mr. Miller and the nurse looking after him, who presumably will leave after seeing him to bed. Yet it must be earlier than that when Watson and I come into play. Abide a moment when you are alone on the ground floor, perhaps when Mr. Miller is having his bath. This is what I want you to do…"

He continued to talk, and Lavinias eyes continued to widen.

The leaves above us fluttered in the increasing wind, in the invading darkness. It was astonishing how cold the evening could be after so hot a day. My fingers itched to light a cigarette, for I still wore my linen suit and nothing more, and I yearned for the warm tobacco smoke to fill my lungs, but of course Holmes would have forbidden it. Sighing, I wrapped my arms around my shoulders and stepped from one foot to the other. A blackbird started to chant, somewhere in the birch groove. It seemed like hours, and yet the watch on my wrist claimed we had been standing in the dusk for merely sixty minutes. Just when I had made up my mind to hang it all and light a cigarette, my companion's hand sneaked to mine, preventing the conceived action. This was too much. He could not have read my mind, now could he?

"Holmes!" I called silently.

"Watson!" he whispered. "The curtains are moving. It is time!"

We crept up to the French windows among the foremost trees. Holmes was right. The curtains were rustling, and a moment later, Lavinia's form was to be beheld in the crevice they formed.

"Quickly!" She murmured, blindly blinking against the darkness. We obeyed, and she stepped aside to let us in, closing both doors and curtains behind us. "Follow me!"

She led us through the familiar Japanese room into the now deserted vestibule, and up the marble stairs. "Mind your feet!" she hissed, and I made an effort to tread as softly as was within my power.

We now entered a dim lit corridor, richly carpeted and decorated with framed sepia photographs on both sides. From somewhere came a gentle talk, and we could hear the sound of running water.

"Jeremy taking his bath", our co-conspirator whispered and opened the door to a large, dark bedroom.

"I thought…behind here", she muttered, and I could discern the shape of a large Spanish wall in the corner. Holmes stepped behind it, lowering himself to the floor, his legs crossed, and I followed his example.

"I am going now. Be quiet!"Lavinia told us. She exited the room, closing the door gently and leaving us in utter darkness.

It was not much later that the door was opened again. Peeping around the corner of the wall, I saw Jeremy Miller and his nurse come in. She settled him in bed, administering several medicines and talking to him, mostly meaningless, soothing words. Then she covered him with the duvet, extinguished the lamp and withdrew, wishing him a very good night.

There was little sound afterwards and for a long time to come. Jeremy breathed regularly. Now and then, he moved in his bed, like a man not yet quite asleep. Finally, however, he started snoring lightly, and the peaceful sound made me want to doze a little myself. I could not give in, naturally, and strove to with all my might to stay awake and on my guard. So we sat. And waited.

I could not tell how much time had elapsed, when all of a sudden, a slight creaking noise alerted me, the sound of a door knob being moved. Jeremy's snoring was interrupted briefly, then he carried on as if nothing had happened. There again, the sound. The door was opened gently, very slowly.

A thin ray of light fell into the dark chamber. The snoring broke off again. The door fell closed with a very slight bang. Nonetheless, there was light, and the origin of it was a figure, a tall and womanly figure in the centre of the room, standing in front of the bed and holding a lamp in its hand. Jeremy had ceased snoring altogether. He murmured quietly in his half-sleep. The woman lifted her lamp a little. She had a wonderful head of swaying chestnut waves, but her face could not be seen behind the lamp, whose rays now where directed at the pillow on the bed.

And then, there was the scream. Never have I heard such a scream in my life! So full of terror, so full of fright, the cry of a haunted soul in the middle of the night, when all peaceful souls have long gained repose. It chilled my marrow! And then, the words spilled out of the man in the bed, the man who had been so niggardly with his words in the light of day.

"Quoi, qui est-ce? Ah non, Cathérine! Est-ce toi? Non, non, c'est impossible! Ah, parle, pour l'amour de Dieu! Parle, si tu n'est pas un lémure!"

Holmes had got on his legs quicker than even I would have given him credit for. With a tiger's leap, he was in the middle of the room, snatching the lamp from the apparition, and illuminating the face of the horrified man who sat upright in his bed. "There, Mr. Jeremy Miller", he said, his teeth gritted lightly. "_Dissemble no more._"

**Bloody hell, that was a long one! Can you tell the good guys from the bad guys by now? Kindly leave me a review!**

**Toodles!**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter six: Dénouement

„I am immensely gratified by your decision to finally bestow your trust on us", my ingenious friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes remarked, "However, we have not as yet given you the opportunity to do so. Please, Mr. Miller. Do commence."

We were installed in the Japanese drawing room on the ground floor, Jeremy lying on his _chaise longue_, wrapped in blankets, with me sitting to his left and Lavinia to his right. The actress had liberated her flaxen hair of the dark, curly wig and now stepped out of the high-heeled slippers daintily, which left her in silken stockings and a long, white cambric shirt.

Mr. Holmes had assumed his customary pose in front of the fire place, hands stuck in the pockets of his trousers, his chin resting on his chest. When his addressee obviously was about to answer, he cut his words short with a shake of his head. "Oh, forgive me. Dear Miss Wilmot, where _did_ you find the wig you added to your disguise? It fabricated the most wonderful likeness."

"That is not as strange as you may think, Mr. Holmes", she replied earnestly. "I took it from Catherine's wax figure, a simulacrum of her own person, kept in the guest room where Nurse Fawcett settled me for the night."

"Ha! A most splendid effect. Was it or was it not a grand idea to startle you in this fashion, Mr. Miller?"

The invalid shifted on his _chaise longue_. "Well – I must say, Mr. Holmes…"

"Oh, I know of course. I apologize for the shock we have given you, but as you are aware yourself, there was no other means by which we could possibly have made you talk."

"Well then", Mr. Miller demurred, slightly disgruntled. "But how on earth did you find out I was a Frenchman?"

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "It was no matter of outstanding cleverness. As my good biographer here will never tire of pointing out, I am of French descent myself on the paternal side, and was educated in Montpellier for a number of years. Being fluent in the gaulish tongue, I thought I discerned a familiar peculiarity in your syntax, though your English is exceptionally good and contains barely the trace of an accent, which is a rare thing in a Frenchman. All the same, it was the proverb that gave you away in the end."

"The proverb?"

"Certainly. If I remember aright, you told Miss Wilmot the following yesterday: it is in need that one recognizes one's true friends. Now there is the French saying of _C'est dans le besoin qu'on reconnaît ses vrais amis. _You, as I should expect a non-native speaker to do, translated the saying word by word, whereas _A friend in need is a friend indeed_ is what an Englishman would have been more likely to say. It was my belief, then, that you were not what you pretended to be, yet how could I force a confession from you? My deserving companions inspired me to the idea of giving you a shock, taking you by surprise. In all experience, a stunned man will talk in his mother tongue in the first moment – especially when he deems himself alone."

Mr. Miller had watched him open mouthed during his recounting the procedure. Struck with awe, he finally professed: "C'est comme vous le dites, Monsieur Holmes. Moi foi, que vous êtes rusé!"

My companion smiled for the fraction of a second, but became serious immediately. "You understand, of course", he said in a business-like manner, "that by withholding such an important piece of information, you have placed yourself in an awkward position. It would be best if you took us into your confidence, completely and absolutely."

"Naturally." Jeremy inhaled deeply, then glanced at each of us in turn. "My real name, gentlemen – and dear Lavinia – is Jérôme de la Galette. I was born and raised in Paris, in the bohemian quarter of Montmartre, as the son of a ballet dancer and a well-known sculptor, whose name I would prefer to leave unmentioned, since it has no bearing upon the entire affair. My mother brought me into contact with the stage at an early age, and I had begun training as a professional dancer when I discovered my true ambition: Being an actor. "

We listened with pricked ears. Lavinia had leaned forward a little in her chair. The invalid proceeded: "Indeed I obtained an employment at a provincial theatre in southern France that was much frequented by English tourists from the health resort close by. It was there that I first met Catherine – Catherine Bicester, as was her name then. I fell in love with her, and - my god! - how I fell in love! It did not take me long to find out how famous she was back home, a _personage célèbre. _It constrained me, since I feared she would regard me as an ambitious fortune-seeker, however she made it clear to me my feelings were requited, and we got engaged within weeks."

I watched the young Frenchman in silent fascination as he continued his narrative. "Of course, Cathy had no unlimited leave from her professional engagements", he explained, "and I made up my mind to accompany her to England and marry her. So I did – as you can see for yourselves. Our marriage was a success from the beginning, only one thing displeased me: My own career made no progress and I could see no change for the better in future. Cathy suggested my problems might arise from my name, and advised me to have it altered and assume an altogether British identity, what with my fluency in the language could be easily arranged. I decided on Jeremy as the name with the strongest resemblance to Jérôme, as I entertain a great fancy for my old name. The surname was a mere association of ideas. If you have been to Paris, you no doubt have visited the _Moulin de la Galette _at Montmartre, one of my personal favourite places at home. A Mill – Miller – it was as easy as that. After the exchange of my name, things indeed did run more smoothly for me, and then there was always Cathy's influence that did the rest."

During his story, Holmes had repeatedly taken out his cigarette case, realized it was empty, and thrust it back into his pocket with an annoyed grunt. By the time Jeremy fell silent, he had become positively furious. "And then that was it?" he spat with bright ire. "Did I not tell you to let us have the _whole_ truth, absolutely and completely?"

"Mr. Holmes – " Mr. Miller, or Monsieur de la Galette rather, squirmed and gave him a vexed look. "I _did_…tell everything…"

"Do – not – deceive me, Mr. Miller", my friend foamed, pacing up and down the small space covered by the hearth rug. "I warn you…this will be your last chance. I wired my Parisian colleague Bertillon, asking him to make contact with the forces in southern France. Now that I am in possession of your actual name, it would be all too easy to reconstruct your deeds and misdeeds down there, but it would cost our time, time of which we have precious little. I do not think you have as yet grasped the probability that you – you, Mr. Miller! – might be in mortal danger."

There was a silence, during which we traded alarmed glances.

"Mortal – danger?" Jeremy gulped at last.

"Indeed", Mr. Holmes nodded gravely. "Now, if I may be so bold – the facts, please."

"Well", the young man gathered his fortitude, looking at Mr. Holmes with honest, wide opened eyes. "There is only one incident I regard as worthy of your attention – an intermezzo much regretted by me, and shameful to some extent. It seems no use denying I _have been_ engaged before…down there in . She was a very young English lady, Meredith Evans by name. She had come in order to cure her lung disease, a matter of many months. I had developed a foolish fancy for her and promised her marriage – but of course everything was over when I met Catherine. I finished it right away."

To the outward observer, it would have seemed that Lavinia and I had stopped breathing. Our glances shot back at Sherlock Holmes, who said slowly: "And a short time after the announcement of your second engagement, the sick, weak lady passed off?"

"I'm afraid so", Jeremy mumbled, slightly intimidated. Suddenly he jerked up. "But how is it, Mr. Holmes, that you have knowledge of the outcome?"

My boswell's hand had approached the inner pocket of his jacket for the third time now, however this time he remembered the futility and let his hand sink to his side. "Mr. Miller", he said with very cool, very measured tones, "though it is clear to me you never have done so, I suggest you contemplate the possibility the identity of your former bride's surname with that of your employer is not purely coincidental."

There was no word breathed for quite a long period of time. Finally, Lavinia muttered: "No."

Holmes spun around. "Yes, Miss Wilmot! The sooner you try to befriend the idea, the sooner you will accept that the gentle, courteous, chivalrous Mr. Evans is the murderer of Catherine Miller, and nobody else."

She still appeared to struggle with the conception, although she remained quiet. Mr. Miller, as must be said to his credit, was more susceptible to the assumption. Perhaps, as a Frenchman, the _crime de Coeur_ did make more sense to him. "Yes", he breathed. "I have had an indistinct suspicion – but then, Meredith never mentioned the high position her father held, and Evans is such a commonplace name."

"I am convinced this initial lack of suspicion was mutual", the detective declared. "If anything, Mr. Evans would have known Catherine's first name, which is also quite commonplace. As regards Mr. Jeremy Miller, I doubt he recognized the descriptions of Monsieur de la Galette in his daughter's letters in him. Nevertheless, it appears he found out in the end."

"But this is terrible!" Jeremy suddenly flared up. "He _killed _her – and she had done nothing! She was innocent! It was not her fault I fell in love with her."

"She stole the man from another woman", I reminded him. "I take it she was aware of your relations with Miss Evans?"

"Y – yes", the Frenchman admitted. "She was aware of it. Nonetheless, it remains outrageous! I demand revenge!"

"Calm yourself, Mr. Miller", Holmes uttered. "In the first place, it is your own security we must see to. You understand, of course, that Mr. Evans' rather conceivable hatred must extend to you?"

"Then have him arrested! Do something, man!"

Mr. Holmes scrutinized him deliberatively. "I am about to do so." He resumed his walk on the hearth rug. "It would be quite impossible to have him arrested at present, taken into consideration that we lack proof. Therefore, I suggest the employ of a trap – we will give him the opportunity of a murderous attack on you, Mr. Miller. Naturally, Watson and I will attend the encounter in a hiding place arranged beforehand, and you shall emerge the entire affair unharmed. It will be necessary to have them all here, assembled in this house, all the members of the Theatre Royal. Could you render it possible?" He asked, turning to Lavinia.

She reflected briefly. "I could propose organizing an after funeral memorial for Catherine to Eliza. We made up this evening, so she might accede if I promise to assist her…"

"Excellent! With the consent of Mr. Miller, she will have no choice but to agree also. Mr. Miller, would you be willing, despite your fragile constitution, to undergo the risk?"

Mr. Miller held his breath for some moments, then he acquiesced: "Yes, Mr. Holmes. I am willing."

"Wonderful. And now, I propose, you retire to your room, as we have been forced to abbreviate the rest you so clearly require."

"_Assurement,_ . Thank you."

My friend nodded with the usual _It is nothing_-air he reserved for the beneficiaries of his genius.

"However, I am much agitated", the young man proceeded. "It seems astounding, since I have been given a sleeping draught by the nurse."

"Ah, I am afraid Miss Wilmot saw to it that it should contain nothing but water and a dissolved mint dragée", the detective exclaimed with a twinkling eye.

"All the same, you surely have other sleeping drugs in your medicine chest", I said. "Let me come with you and we shall find something to afford you a sleepless slumber."

Mr. Holmes checked the watch on his chain. "I will wait for you downstairs. Do not be long, Watson! I certainly have no desire to run into Miss Bicester for the second time today – it would not be conducive for our enterprise."

I resettled Mr. Miller in his bed and searched the small cabinet he kept his drugs in. Yet all I could find was some rather big, round capsules which could not be dissolved in water. Nevertheless, I wanted to give some to my patient to wash the things down with, but discovered the water carafe on his bedside table was empty.

"I shall get you a drink from the kitchen", I muttered under my breath. "If you would please describe its location to me?"

He explained the way to me, and I found it on the ground floor, on the right hand side of the vestibule, overlooking the flowerbeds on the lawn, which of course could not be discerned in the dense darkness outside. I filled the carafe I had brought with cold water from the faucet and stepped out into the vestibule. On my way to the marble stairs, I noticed the door of the drawing room standing ajar, and the sound of low, insistent talk ringing out.

Putting the carafe on the side board next to a dark-veiled rose bouquet, I approached the door and peeped in. Mr. Holmes still stood in front of the fireplace, opposite the door, and Lavinia by his side, facing him, but turning her profile to me. She looked strangely small and fragile in the light of the Japanese rice paper lamp, with her soft face and golden locks,still dressed in the white nightgown.

I could say she resembled a child, a puppet, a delicate porcelain figure, but it would not do justice to the overarching loveliness of her appearance. The distance between them and the spot where I was concealed by the door made it impossible for me to understand all that was said, and I could get only single phrases and snatches of the conversation.

"…quite absurd! You cannot pretend to be blind to it", my friend just said, peering down at the young woman intensely.

"Mr. Holmes…I am sorry…" Lavinia muttered, her handsome face contorted as if by pain.

"If you just tried to be frank with me", Mr. Holmes proceeded, a trifle louder in his agitation. "Look at you! You are such a beautiful woman. Women like you are _born_ with a sense of knowing when a man has fallen for them. Don't expect me to believe…"

The rest was not to be discerned, but Lavinia's complexion deepened into a lovely shade of pink. "Well…it's true…I _did_ take notice of these feelings you talked of…and you are quite right in presuming that I reciprocate them…to a certain degree."

I saw Sherlock Holmes, looking earnestly into the eyes of the breathtaking girl, before I withdrew on the tips of my toes, as unnoticed as I had entered. My cheeks burned with embarrassment. I had heard quite enough.

**Hi guys! Sorry for the cliffhanger in the last chapter, I have been severely reprimanded for it *runs and hides behind a bush*And yet another one!**

**Penny for your thoughts?**


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter seven: Peripeteia

The just slightly tripping rain was made a nuisance of by the wind, which swept it in a sideways fashion peculiar to London. The first shovel of soil on the coffin of Catherine Miller had long transformed into an unsightly patch of mud, and the abundant lily bouquets had been equally spoiled by the unfavourable weather conditions.

"Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust…"

I could sense the faint impatience in the vicar, his desire to get over with the litany and step into a dry place. His thoughts, I believe, were shared by Eliza Bicester, who stood next to him under a black umbrella, her father's hand on her shoulder. Her small frame fidgeted with annoyance at the unexpected shower, the rain being warm, but uncomfortable all the same.

Jeremy Miller had also arrived on the supporting arm of his nurse, and now he bend forward and strew a handful of pale blossoms into the pit, which were supposed to flutter down on the cover of the sarcophagus gracefully, but were mixed with the mud and rain to form a not very ornamental mess.

I raised my eyes and met those of Lavinia Wilmot, on the opposite side of the pit. I frowned a little, and she quickly averted her eyes to on her part strew white petals onto the earthly remainder of her deceased friend. She had made a point of avoiding Holmes and me all morning, and for the sake of propriety I thought it best to that she should continue to do so.

It may be petty of me, yet the thought of that evening in Chelsea still filled me with indignation and disappointment. Somebody might have told me, after all. It was not that I had developed any feelings for the girl myself – heavens forefend! I was married not only recently, but happily. Moreover, I was aware of my friend being an immensely private man. Still… I continued watching her, took in her solemn, tasteful attire, the black cap she wore on her pale blond head, and to which she had attached the merest hint of a veil, covering the upper half of her face.

Mr. Evans stood next to her, and she slightly shuddered when he took her hand and pressed it comfortingly. I felt my fist tightening at my side. The fiend! Sweet Lord, he had a nerve! Why was he attending the ceremony at all, pretending grief in cold blood? There had been neither kinship nor close intimacy between Catherine and him, so perhaps he would have chosen a wiser course of action in staying away. However, it served our purpose.

During my reverie, the priest had come to an end and a slight commotion marked the beginning of departure. Holmes and I followed the train in a bit of an interval over the graveyard to where the carriages had been parked, and I quickly checked the fit of my black collar in the reflecting window of the cab.

"Hurry up, doctor!" Holmes urges me to embark, when the convoy slowly began to set in motion. I stepped in and took a seat by his side. "You know, my dear Watson", he observed, indifferently looking out of the window, "You have made me rather proud today. You have not so much as thrown one suspicious glance into the direction of our intended prey."

"Thank you", I replied coldly, having little use for his approval currently. "I take it you did all the discreet observation yourself."

He chuckled. "There would have been little to interest me. The young man, however, Mr. Miller, evokes my compassion. It is pity how little control some men have over their hearts – and makes me glad all the more that I will never find myself in the realms of this particular danger."

His hypocrisy met me like a venomous sting. "The foolishness to indulge in amorous feelings would be a fault of the French blood, I assume", was my waspish response.

He looked at me in surprise and then shrugged his shoulders, failing to comprehend me. "I am afraid you are somewhat ill tempered today, old chap, but under no circumstances let it get you down! The thrill of the hunt should re-heighten your spirits. Arrrh!" He fisted his hand like a boy catching the hare, laughing quietly in gleeful anticipation.

Re-directing my glance at the window and pondering the metaphorical hunt, I could not but wonder who would turn out to be the prey.

The Japanese drawing room had been adorned with loads and loads of white roses and carnations, and the raw-silken tapestry on the wall had been removed to leave space for a large screen in front of which several rows of chairs had been arranged. Outside, the rain had ceased, and the trim garden looked fresh and dewy, sparkling in vivid colours.

Some refreshments, cake and pastries, had been provided, and the well-trained maids roamed the room quite invisibly, until anyone cared for more tea or wine.

Holmes and I stood at the French windows, where we were joined after a short while by Mr. Cyril Monroe. "Mr. Holmes – . It was nice of you to come."

Holmes acknowledged the civility with a nod and one of his short lived smiles.

"I…wondered…" Mr. Monroe lowered his voice and looked if anyone was standing near, as if he were about to utter obscenities. "I was wondering whether you have made any progress as yet. I mean, with Catherine just under the earth…one inevitably asks oneself questions…" he trailed off, encouraged by neither of us.

"I have discerned little instances of relevance, Mr. Monroe", Holmes finally professed. "You do not have to abandon all hope, but I must warn you not to take it for granted the investigation will forward any results."

"of course…of course…" The handsome man agreed. "It is just…I think you should re-consider Lavinia's suggestion of someone in the audience being involved. It would be…a much more credible conception…"

"…and a much more desirable outcome for your company!" my friend exclaimed. "I can understand it has suffered a heavy loss through the eradication of the Miller couple from the ensemble…and your reluctance to allow further impairment does you much honour. All the same, Mr. Monroe, I am unable to make any allowances for your loyalties – I never investigate aiming at a preconceived result."

The young man nodded his understanding, if distanced, agreement. "Naturally, sir. Thank you for your time, anyway."

Before either of us could add something, the entire room fell silent, and when we turned around in quest of a reason, Lavinia stood in the central spot, her glass lifted. "I would like to propose a toast", she chimed with her high, clear voice, "to the memory of the lady we have loved and lost. To a beautiful woman, formidable actress, to a wonderful wife, daughter, sister and colleague. To the best of friends. Mrs. Catherine Miller!"

Everyone quickly grasped for his or her glass in order to raise it. "Catherine Miller!" the rumbling echo rang out. My eyes flashed to the corner to which Mr. Evans had taken refuge. He had raised his glass as everybody else did, but I was positive he his lips had not as much as moved when the toast was responded to. _"….he hated Catherine!" _Lavinia whispered in my head. I blinked and listened as the real Lavinia proceeded.

"May I ask you, ladies and gentlemen, to take a seat. We are going to show a selection of photographs featuring our friend that is no more."

People moved and murmured and finally installed themselves on the indicated chairs, while Bicester senior, a bulky, brawny man, started to busy himself with the projector that had been set up in the rear of the room.

"Would you please close the curtains?" he called over to where we stood. Holmes and I obliged his request prior to taking the two outer seats of the very last row of chairs. It did not escape my attention that the detective had reserved those, having placing his hat and cane on them.

When silence had finally been furnished among the party in the darkness, Eliza Bicester took the word. "Even as a child, it was Catherine's one and only joy to act, and I may say she ignited the same joy in me. But see for yourselves."

On the screen, which was brightly lit by the projector, a picture appeared, a photograph depicting two girls, approximately five and ten years old. Elizabeth and Catherine Bicester had disguised themselves as chevalier and horse, and everybody laughed at the sight of young Catherine with the _papier mâché_ horse head, the mirth increasing when in the next picture she actually bore her younger sister, very unlike a horse, on her shoulders. A series of similar memoranda ensued: The girls and their parents at a beach in southern England. Cathy in school uniform on her first day in boarding school. Cathy and Eliza playing with their dogs in the garden.

There were also pictures of the adolescent Catherine, now frequently together with Lavinia Wilmot. The two maids could be seen in bright organza as debutantes on a ball of the London season, as lawn-cricket players, on horseback in the countryside… I marveled at Catherine's remarkable ability to bring the impression of a spontaneous moment into each and every take, though I knew the photographs to be arranged. It was her spontaneity, I wager, that made her an unforgettable actress.

Furthermore, there were a good many shots from her more successful productions, and I especially admired her as Antigone, starring in Sophocles' play of the same name. She was wearing a wide skirt and greek _peplos_, her hair coiffed in rich, curly tresses, her arms lifted high above her head, as if shaking her fists while arguing with the gods.

I could not suppress a sigh. Why was it the good ones always that had to die young? I needed to remind myself of the fact she had done the Unforgivable and snatched the fiancée from a weak, moribund girl. However…

I nearly woke from a slumber when my friend gently touched my arm. I turned to him, but could only see his profile in the twilight of the projector. He put the index to his lips to silence me, and rose noiselessly. I glanced about, but the guests' attention was banned on the screen, where at present Cathy's and Jeremy's wedding photographs were being displayed. I quickly rose, too, and followed my comrade through the gloom to the door leading into the vestibule. Sherlock Holmes pressed the handle down softly, and we slipped out without making the faintest din.

Outside, I asked: "Holmes, don't you think Mr. Bicester will have noticed our departure? Standing in the back of the room, he almost certainly saw us leaving…"

"No, I do not think so", he cut short my scrupulous words. "Above all, it is not him we are aiming at. Do you have your revolver?"

"Naturally. I would like to make a bet, however, this fellow Evans has one, too", I moped.

"That may as well be, but we do not have an infinity of time at our disposal. Come along, old chap!"

We withdrew to the corner of the vestibule where the telephone was installed on a small, round table. "That will do", my friend remarked, opening the door to a broom closet beneath the marble stairs. "We will retire into here."

On the outside, the door was well integrated into the décor of the wall, thus granting nearly perfect invisibility. We stepped into the dusty, cramped place and closed the door behind us.

"Can you see anything?" Holmes murmured next to my ear. I closed one eye and peeped into the keyhole. "Nothing. The key is stuck on the outside. Shall I get it?"

"It doesn't matter", Holmes decided, for at this very moment the telephone started to ring incredibly loud and shrill. "We will rely on our ears instead…on what is left of them."

We fell silent as someone with a quick, light step approached and stopped dead in front of our lair. "Chelsea 55, at Mr. Jeremy Miller's", a female voice said. It was one of the maid servants, I knew her timbre. "Yes, sir. Your condolences – sure. I shall get him, if you choose to wait a minute."

Her steps departed. "Excellent. But who called?" I whispered in the darkness.

"Inspector Lestrade", Holmes muttered. "Unfortunately, circumstances forced me to take him into my confidence."

"Indeed?"

"Why yes, he is my only acquaintance with a telephone connection. Hush! Here he comes."

My ears discerned the more heavy tread of a male person.

"Jeremy Miller", I could hear the young man say.

"Ah, good day to you, Mister-the-Inspector. Yes. Mr. Holmes informed me you were likely to call. Yes, yes, thank you. Everything went quite well. It was a most moving ceremony. Charming…quite charming. Thank you again. Good bye!"

There was the sound of Jeremy putting down the receiver. He hesitated for a moment, then said, sounding rather composed: "Ah, it is you."

"Yes." That was the baritone of Mr. Evans. "I would like to have a word with you. The opportunity is convenient, as they are all occupied in there and will not miss us for a while."

A pause. Then: "What is it you would like to talk to me about?" Jeremy enquired politely.

"A personal matter of the utmost importance", Mr. Evans replied. I may be mistaken, yet I believe he sounded a trifle upset than before.

"Very well. Shall we talk right here?"

"No…no. I thought – the gardens look quite lovely, so fresh and delicious. Why don't we take a step outside?"

"Just as you like. Pray – after you."

"Oh, no. After _you_", Evans insisted, the emphasis on the last word leaving our young friend no choice. There was another pause, then Jeremy seemed to acquiesce, for his steps strode away again.

There was such a profound silence afterwards that I began to wonder if perhaps Mr. Evans had left on the tips of his toes, unheard by either of us. I was just about to communicate my thoughts to Holmes, when a sudden creak informed us about the key being tuned in the lock outside.

Instantaneously, we both threw ourselves against the door with united power, but it was too late. Evans' steps faded away in the distance. We were stuck in our own trap.

**Okay, we have nearly made it! Keep courage!**

**I am so sorry for the "sleepless slumber"-blunder in the previous chapter. It's so mortifying. Intended was "dreamless slumber", naturally. Maybe I should quit typing at two o'clock in the morning…**

**A propos telephones in Holmes fanfictions, I can warmly recommend the oneshot "ring ring" by **_**wordybirdy.**_** It's hilarious!**


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter eight: Exeunt

„Damn!" Filled with panic, I tried to force the door, but it resisted my attempts. "Let us out! Help! Anybody!"

"It's useless", Sherlock Holmes informed me calmly. "We have been tricked and it is too late. There is nothing you could do about it."

"No!No!" I continued hammering on the door and calling for help, until my voice was quite hoarse and my hands hurt.

"Do not exert yourself, doctor", my friend in the dark advised me. "We failed Monsieur de la Galette. He should be dead by now."

My reason grasped the truth his words held, and yet my heart refused to accept it. I drummed the door with my fists, realizing that the minutes passed like sand running through one's fingers. Just at the very moment that I was about to resign, I noticed my colleague's getting into an upright position and pricking his ears. And then I heard, too, I heard a faint, hesitating tread out in the hall.

"Help! In here!" I cried for the umpteenth time, and on this occasion Holmes chimed in, falling silent only when the key was turned around outside, the door swung open and the light of day fell into the stuffy little chamber.

" ! Dr. Watson!" Lavinia exclaimed in utter amazement. "Whatever happened? I was looking for Jeremy…"

Holmes slipped past her with me in his wake. "Come on, quickly now! Maybe it's not too late!"

He drew his revolver and ran out into the garden on top of his speed. I was about to do the same, when Lavinia cried:"John! What's going on? Why are you not with Jeremy?"

Determinedly, I seized her hand and we rushed out to join Holmes, who had stopped briefly. Kneeling down, he hurriedly examined the wet ground, ere he jumped back to his feet. "They took the path down there! Follow me!"

We dashed down a flight of stairs that led into a rhododendron thicket in the lower part of the garden. Holmes had halted again, turning round like a sleuth that has lost direction, when suddenly a human cry rang through the brush, shrill and terrified.

"Oh god, they are over there!" Lavinia gasped, pointing at a large elm which towered over the dense growth of rhododendrons. Holmes had already sped into the indicated direction, and we stumbled behind him.

When we had come so close that we could discern voices, my companion slowed down, turned to us and gave us a sign to be silent. Carefully stepping behind a bush, we could peep through the dark foliage out on the small clearing at the base of the elm tree.

The sight which offered itself to us was both a shock and a relief. Jeremy stood in the centre of the clearing, alive and without damage to his person, however he faced Mr. Evans, who had directed both his steely eyes and his gun at the pitiful young fellow.

I could plainly see he was afraid, yet at the same time he appeared to be awfully angry and upset. "You – you did that to her?" he shrieked, somewhere between terror and wrath. "How could you bring yourself to do it? She was an angel – she was adorable!"

"She was none of those things", Mr. Evans drowned him out. "You know only too well what I am talking about. A common cheat, that's what she was – deprived my only child of her last little joy in life, driving her to her premature death, my wife to suicide and myself to the confounded misery I now find myself in. Hear me? She was a cheat – a minx!"

"Shut up!" Jeremy yelled, but he only succeeded in riling Mr. Evans further, who now raised his gun.

"She got what she deserved. Measure for measure. And you will receive the same punishment – my dear friend", he gnashed between his teeth.

Jeremys eyes widened with fright. "You won't get away with it this time, Evans! I told Mr. Holmes about Meredith and me – "

"How dare you even speak her name, filthy scoundrel!" The theatre director flared up. "Make a last wish – prepare to meet thy god."

Jeremy closed his eyes, and the finger of his deathly foe had begun to curl around the trigger of the gun, when –

"No! Don't!" Lavinia had withdrawn her hand from mine and broke through the branches. It was hard to say who of the four men present was most startled, anyway Holmes recovered comparatively quick and stepped out into the clearing himself, I following his example.

"It is over, Evans", he professed quietly. If he had expected our adversary to lower his weapon, he had erred tremendously! With a quick leap, the man stood behind young Jeremy, clapping the gun to his temple.

"Do not take one further step, Mr. Holmes", he said, managing quite well to sound composed. "Otherwise, I will blow out that fellow's brains."

The three of us froze in our respective positions. There was a moment's silence, then Mr. Holmes declared:"It won't do, Sir Phillip. Even if you take Mr. Miller hostage, you can't get away."

"Who says so? I have a carriage waiting. Nobody will dare to interfere as long as I have him in my power!" Evans returned in cold blood.

Holmes' eyes narrowed. "You will consider the possibility, sir, that the man who was able to disclose your crime might be equally able to hunt you down."

The fiend sneered. "Please don't act the wise man for me, Mr. Holmes! With all due respect for your abilities – you would never have found me out if it hadn't been for the creeping worm who told you about himself and my daughter."

"On the contrary", Holmes returned, a trifle louder, "I was in the picture about your deed from the day it was committed."

He drew his breath and proceeded, his eyes fixed on Mr. Evans: "When we entered the chamber where Catherine Miller had been slayed, the first thing you did was take off your coat and covering the corpse with it, what with the presence of ladies was quite comprehensible. However, when I examined the body a moment later, something rather strange caught my eye. The stab wound was deep – _not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door_, but quite deep all the same.

The blood must have sprung from the wound like a fountain, taken into account the red drops outside in the corridor. I deduced the attacker's clothes would have been sprinkled as well, and I assumed you checked your costume for marks, maybe replaced the plain white shirt that was part of it. Nonetheless, the stain on your cloak you discovered only on entering the room in our company, the vestment being of dark material and the dried blood also quite dark.

You proved a good deal of mental alertness by placing it on the body, thus accounting for the presence of blood stains. All the same, it was located on the _upper _side of the cloak, and when I examined it, it was the only stain on the upper side. The side which had direct contact with the wound naturally was also blemished, but in no place the blood had soaked through yet.

My conclusion, of course, was that the stain had been there all along, and that you had attempted to hide it from me."

I watched him full of admiration while he talked, but Mr. Evans had no praise to spare, he only snorted superciliously. "Why do you think this would interest me? I am leaving, if you have no objections. And you – " He pressed his weapon to Jeremys head, "will not move…or else this miserable wretch will die somewhat earlier than necessary."

He had started to retreat, leading Jeremy away from us step by step, when Holmes called: "Wait one more minute!"

Evans hesitated. "What do you want?" he asked suspiciously.

"I would like to propose a bargain", uttered, swiftly taking a step backwards to demonstrate he did not plan any mischief.

"A bargain?"

"Indeed. I would like to offer an exchange of hostages."

Mr. Evans laughed a bitter little laughter. "Your intentions certainly are very honourable, Mr. Holmes – but no, thank you. I am absolutely not interested in doing you harm."

"I was not referring to myself", Holmes corrected him quickly. "In fact, I intended to suggest Miss Wilmot here – provided she is prepared to go?"

To my amazement and unspeakable horror, Lavinia nodded. "Indeed, Mr. Holmes. I am prepared to do that."

Holding my breath, I watched Sir Phillip Evans, whose deep, blue eyes gazed at our lovely young friend unwaveringly. "I accept", he finally declared. "Lavinia? Come over here. Slowly."

Lavinia Wilmot gave me a sad little smile. Then she turned to my friend and exchanged a long glance with him. Sherlock Holmes nodded and she began to move, very slowly, taking one step after the other."

I jerked up. "Holmes!" I hissed, "we can't allow her to…"he held me back at my arm.

"Let her go, Watson", he said calmly.

Powerlessly I stood with my friend's grip on my arm, and watched Lavinia cross the clearing with her tiny steps, like a ballet dancer crossing a rope. When she had made it halfway to Evans, the man let go off Jeremy Miller, who started walking into our direction.

Lavinia had now reached her employer, who laid a hand on her shoulder. "All right. Now, come along…don't move!" he threatened us, slowly withdrawing to the depths of the gardens.

I watched them as long as I could see them, the metallic gleam of the revolver that aimed at us, Sir Phillip's shiny blue eyes, Lavinia's soft blonde head with the small black veil. When finally they disappeared in the thicket, Jeremy Miller collapsed into my arms, worn out by terror and exhaustion.

The wistful gloom of the summer evening had invaded 221b, Baker Street. I sat at my desk, pretending to write, when actually I was constantly casting hidden glances at my friend, who sat by the fire-place, staring into the heaps of cold ash, as if he expected them to incite themselves any moment. I could stand it no longer. I had to say _something_.

"Holmes", I muttered, rising from my desk, "I am dreadfully sorry."

His head turned around. "Whatever for, dear Watson?"

"Well – Miss Wilmot", I said uncomfortably, for I was uncertain how Holmes would take to my intruding into his private sphere. "I…I know hardly what to say."

"My dear fellow, I do not think you should worry about her too much. She acted according to her own free will, after all."

His words struck me as somewhat strange. I decided to be more frank with him. "Er, truth be told, Holmes, I overheard part of your conversation the other night in Chelsea", I confessed. He had to understand the implications of _this_.

"Oh, indeed. Well, I had approached her with the request of persuading Mr. Evans to attend the memorial. I was afraid he would scent the ruse and stay away."

I furrowed my brow. "And how did that lead up to the confession of her feelings…?"

"I had to force it from her", Holmes replied matter-of-factly.

"So I have heard, old chap. And all that is left for me to say is how strongly I feel with you", I pronounced, deeply moved.

Mr. Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Watson, what _are _you talking about?"

"But you just conceded – " I spluttered.

"She did not want to acknowledge the fact this Mr. Evans was madly in love with her – as she was with him", my friend observed.

I bit my tongue just in time and if I could, I would have swallowed it. "Oh – yes?" I asked lamely.

"Indeed." Mr. Holmes stuffed his pipe and lit it thoughtfully. "It is very strange how some women totally refuse to see just a nose's length ahead. Not that I consider Miss Wilmot a simpleton, in my opinion she is quite a reasonable young woman, and today she has proven courage as well as moral strength. However, when I confronted her with what I had observed, she contradicted me as vehemently as if I had charged her with the crime itself."

"Incredible", I responded, inwardly hitting my head onto the desk.

"Well, well. At least we may trust she is safe wherever she is. Much rather than doing her harm, Mr. Evans will bear her on his hands. We may be quite satisfied with our achievements, Watson. Not only have we saved a man's life, but brought two very extraordinary persons together, who perhaps wouldn't have managed on their own."

He puffed his pipe smugly. "This Evans is not a bad fellow, mind you – he just couldn't overcome his loss. Let us hope he will now be able to begin a new life with the help of our young friend, far away from London and the stage. By no means do I consider myself a matchmaker – but you can't deny it was a good day's work, can you?"

His dark eyes sparkled with satisfaction, and I could not but smile, despite my inconceivable stupidity. "Can I, Holmes? _Jack shall have Jill/naught shall go ill/the man shall have his mare again…"_

My friend's twinkling glance met mine over his pipe. "_…and all shall be well._"

**Voilà tout! Well guys, that's it, apart from an unimportant little epilogue I will install sometime these days. How did you like it? Eh? Why do I receive no feed-back? Write a review for me, dammit!**

**(Okay, easy guys. I still love you ;-)**


	9. Chapter 9

Epilogue: Catharsis

Very little remains to be told. As regards Mr. Evans and Lavinia, nothing was heard of either ever after, and I often wondered what may have become of them and whether my friend's prediction has come true. I sincerely hope so for the sake of Lavinia, who will always live in my memory as a lady of rare character qualities.

Jeremy Miller aka Monsieur de la Galette made a full recovery, but returned to the stage only temporarily. He has married Eliza, his sister-in-law and heiress to a considerable estate, and together they have settled down someplace in Derbyshire, where they spend a quiet life rearing their children.

All these privations have given a severe blow to the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane, the decimated cast diminishing the profit of its productions. There is a hopeful prospect however, for Mr. Cyril Monroe has indeed succeeded Mr. Evans as director, and I trust his careful management will securely manoeuvre the company through the upheaval aforesaid adversities caused.

One mild evening, some three or four weeks after our adventure, Holmes and I took a turn in the close vicinity of Marylebone. We had, as a reward for our labours, purchased two tickets for Adelina Patti's singing performance at Royal Albert Hall, and it was our intention to get there on foot, walking to Marble Arch and crossing Hyde Park heading for South Kensington. The air was balmy and soothing after a baking hot day, and we strolled leisurely, having plenty of time left.

Now and then, I would amuse myself by scrutinizing the display in the shop windows, stepping to the inner margin of the sidewalk. Among others, an antiquarian dealer caught my eye, and I stood musing for a little while above some figurine copies of _The Poet_, the latest masterpiece by Auguste Rodin, the French artist, and to my sensation, rather horrible.

"I say, Watson", Holmes remarked smilingly, joining me by the window pane. "What is capturing your attention?"

"Nothing." I shrugged my shoulders and turned away. "Don't know what people see in this fellow Rodin. Awfully overrated. Not what I picture as the ultimate expression of artistic entrepreneurial spirit, but then, it was you who said art was liable to take the strangest forms, eh, Holmes?"

He did not signify he had heard me, in fact he gazed into the window, and I had to disturb his daydreams by touching his shoulder. He turned his head. "So sorry, Watson. What did you say?"

"Me? _I_ said nothing. _You _said art in the blood was liable to take the strangest forms, remember? I for once think you are perfectly right."

"I wonder…" Holmes stroked his chin with the index, pensively glancing from the shop window to me. He appeared to be a little absent, so I linked arms with him to ensure we would both arrive at the Hall.

"I wonder…"

Together, we passed Cumberland Gate and strayed into the deep shade of the fragrant jasmine arcade.


End file.
